Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
In the month that followed Franz’s admission, life seemed to strap a jetpack to itself and take off in every direction, both the good and the bad.
Pipers’ practice went on as normal, or at least as relatively normal as possible.
Going back after I found out what Cordero was planning was tough, really tough.
I was a horrible liar with an itty-bitty temper that desperately wanted to make an appearance.
How could I face these people like nothing was wrong?
How could I make it seem like I wasn’t dying a little inside while planning my escape?
It was hard. We had advanced to the first round of the playoffs.
I was resentful and angry, and my emotions hadn’t wavered at all.
The worst aspect of being so bitter was the part of me that held my ego above winning.
Pride told me I shouldn’t give a single crap how the rest of the season went.
The reasonable half of me that didn’t get sappy right before my period, said that I had no business thinking that way. I needed the Pipers to do well.
Everything was wrapped up together now. I’d spoken with my agent and asked her to discreetly see if we could find a spot for me somewhere else in Europe—specifically the teams Kulti and Franz had suggested that afternoon at his house.
She’d been more excited than I could have imagined, and within two weeks sent me an email telling me there were three teams interested in speaking with me.
I talked to my parents on the phone and told them everything.
The first thing out of my dad’s mouth before he told me he had plenty of airline miles to visit Europe was “Este cabrón.” This bitch, referring to Cordero.
After that, I called my brother where he proceeded to chew me out for being friends with the German, and then offered to help me find a place to live, followed by a passing “fuck them,” referring to the WPL.
We ended the conversation with me critiquing his latest game.
Then there were the emails, the phone calls, and the reporters.
Why people even cared about the pictures that popped up of Kulti and I during the youth camp blew my mind.
Four youth camps worth of cell phone pictures taken by parents, teachers, and students flooded both gossip and Kulti fan sites.
Shots of us smiling, laughing, a few with his arm around me or with blurred faces of kids between us were being sent to me by my dad who thought it was the coolest freaking thing ever.
I, on the other hand, was only slightly horrified by the attention.
“A LOVE AFFAIR ON THE FIELD” was the last headline he’d sent me with stars in the subject.
Before that had been “KULTI’S EX WANTS HIM BACK” and, “KULTI CAUGHT WITH PLAYER.”
“How long have you been dating?” became the question I dreaded hearing the most in the world.
Honestly, it was only thinking about my dad and knowing he was probably egging on the rumors in his circle of friends that kept me from actually commenting. I could die tomorrow knowing I hadn’t done a single thing wrong. There wasn’t anything to weigh down my conscience.
I stopped talking to members of the media who asked. I stopped checking my email nearly all together once I received a message in Italian along the lines of you’re an ugly bitch and I hope you die. I also only answered calls from numbers saved in my phone.
I didn’t say anything to the German, because what was the point? No one was threatening to kill me. I was also partially concerned he would overreact and blow it out of proportion.
Overall things were fine. Until they weren’t.
WE WERE in Florida for the first playoff game when it happened.
I was standing near the Jacksonville Shields’ goal with a few other players from both teams crowded together to wait out the winner of a battle for the ball, when Grace managed to steal it away. We were tied zero to zero and well into the second half. Someone needed to score.
I waited and waited. I watched the veteran Piper move the ball around and kept up my vigilance to see who stood close enough to accept a pass at a moment’s notice.
I’d been playing with Grace long enough to recognize her body language and what she wanted to do.
There was an opening between us, but the distance was a problem.
Obviously there was only one thing to do, and I was ready.
She kicked the ball up high. I braced for it and watched it fly right at me.
It was going to be a header, definitely. Head meet ball, ball meet another player with a better shot at the goal. It was one of my favorite moves.
I went for it; I jumped straight into the air as a version of my lifelong friend and enemy, the ball, continued its trajectory toward me. Someone elbowed me right in the boob, but I ignored the pain. I could sense people moving around nearby.
I was going to get it. I was going to get it. Later on, I would realize that I didn’t get it.
The last thing I was aware of was the sharp pain that cracked the back of my head.
….
….
Sal!
Casillas!
Schnecke!
Goddamn it!
Schnecke!
SCHNECKE!
….
….
I didn’t even know I’d gotten knocked out until I opened my eyes and found myself on my back, staring up at Kulti’s face, whose eyes were maybe two inches above mine.
Kulti’s breath washed over my mouth, ragged and uneven. His face full of an expression I wasn’t remotely familiar with. And his eyes….
“Move back! Move!” someone yelled from nearby, and I found myself blinking, trying to remember what the hell happened.
A second before Kulti was pushed away by two paramedics, he squeezed my hand. I hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it.
“Overnight?”
The doctor smiled at me. “Yes, overnight. We just want to be on the safe side with your medical history.”
This wasn’t my first or my second concussion.
It also didn’t help that the player who had elbowed the daylights out of me was twice my size and had an arm that would have given a professional bodybuilder a boner.
If I was going to get knocked out, at least it had been by a girl like Melanie Matthews, the second most aggressive defender in the WPL after Harlow.
My concussion was practically a badge of honor.
“All right.” I didn’t sigh because it would have made me move half an inch, and that was more than I wanted to. She really had knocked the shit out of me.
“Excellent. The nurse will be in here to check on you. The call button is to your left if you need anything.”
Unfortunately or fortunately, however you wanted to look at it, this wasn’t my first stay in the hospital. Knee surgeries, ankle surgeries, and that one time I got pneumonia had all landed me an overnight stay. It wasn’t the end of the world.
“Your team rep is outside. I’ll let her in,” the doctor said.
“Thank you,” I called out to his retreating figure loud enough that it made my head buzz with pain.
By some miracle, they had given me a room to myself. My best guess was that it was the Pipers’ insurance that provided it, so I wasn’t going to complain at all.
A knock came at the door, but it didn’t open until I called out.
Sheena’s head popped through the door before she swung it open and came in.
“Sal, how are you feeling?” she asked, a small plant in her hands.
She’d been the one who had ridden over in the ambulance with me after they’d carried me off the field like I’d broken my spine.
“I’m all right,” I told her. “I feel like I’ve been beaten with a sledgehammer, but it’s okay.”
She smiled and set the plant on the rolling table next to the bed. “I’m happy to hear that. What did the doctor say?”
“It’s a concussion, but since it isn’t my first one, they want to keep me overnight to be on the safe side.”
Sheena let out a slow whistle. “You gave us a scare. That’s for sure. Is there anything I can get you?”
“I’m fine, but do you think you can have someone bring me my bag or at least ask Jenny if she can keep it for me? It’s in the locker room.”
“Sure, Sal. No problem,” she agreed.
Then I asked her the question I’d been wondering about for the last two hours. “Do you know if we won?”
“We did. Genevieve scored in the last three minutes.”
Well, at least this crap hadn’t been in vain. “That’s great,” I said.
“It sure is. She’s the next generation, isn’t she?”
The next generation. She was only five years younger than me, for the love of crap. It wasn’t like I was about to croak or needed to invest in a wheelchair anytime soon, jeez.
“Yeah, she is,” I gritted out, annoyed. I wondered if she knew what Cordero was planning.
We looked at each other awkwardly, at a loss for what else to say.
She smiled and glanced at the door. “Well, if there’s not anything else, I should head back now. I wanted to make sure you were fine.”
“I’m all right, thanks.”
“I’ll leave my number on the pad over here in case you need me, and I’ll make sure your bag gets picked up,” she assured.
I somehow smiled using only the minimal amount of facial muscles. “Thanks, Sheena.”
She left, and I sat there in the quiet room alone, finally letting myself think about how much this concussion sucked ass.
I knew what was going to happen. They were going to make me sit out of practice and at least one game, depending on what the doctor suggested and what the Pipers’ trainer decided.
I would have hung my head low except I knew it would be painful. Sure, I didn’t want to die; I understood how important it was to put my health first. But when it came down to it, this was the last thing I freaking needed. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Ugh.
One minute of wallowing was what I usually allowed myself. I made the most of it.
As soon as the sixty seconds were over, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was lucky my injury wasn’t worse. I could have died, right? In the end, this concussion wasn’t the end of the world.